"Well, unfortunately, the truth is about as gloomy as it can be. He's been going from bad to worse, and no man is more sorry than I am."
"Do you mean to tell me so?"
"Yes. There is no use deluding ourselves. Frankly, I have no hope for him. There is not one chance in ten thousand of his recovering his lost ground."
The old man caught his breath, and leaned on his cane for support. He realised now the hollowness of his previous anger. He had never for a moment believed the boy was going to the bad. Down underneath his crustiness was a deep love for his son and a strong faith in him. He had allowed his old habit of domineering to get the better of him, and now in searching after a phantom he had suddenly come upon a ghastly reality.
"Look here," said the banker, noticing his agitation, "have a drink of our Special Scotch with me. It is the best there is to be had for money. We always take off our hats when we speak of the Special in this club. Then we'll go and see how things are moving."
As he turned to order the liquor he noticed for the first time the placard on the cup.
"Now, who the dickens put that there?" he cried angrily. "There's no use in giving up before you're thrashed." Saying which, he took off the placard, tore it up, and threw it into the waste basket.
"Does Richard drink?" asked the old man huskily, remembering the eulogy on the Special.
"Bless you, no. Nor smoke either. No, nor gamble, which is more extraordinary. No, it's all right for old fellows like you and me to indulge in the Special—bless it—but a young man who needs to keep his nerves in order, has to live like a monk. I imagine it's a love affair. Of course, there's no use asking you: you would be the last one to know. When he came in to-night I saw he was worried over something. I asked him what it was, but he declared there was nothing wrong. Here's the liquor. You'll find that it reaches the spot."
The old man gulped down some of the celebrated "Special," then he said—